Of Dust Bunnies and Other Domestic Horrors.

The plight of a working mother with two jobs is made worse with a choice. The choice was, do I continue writing, or give it up to be a better housekeeper, a better mother, a better wife. I gave it up—for almost a week. I found out I’m a better wife and mother if I can exercise my craft. I write, therefore, I am.

But that says nothing for my housekeeping. With only so many hours in the day—and night—something gets left out. Let’s face it, would anyone rather do housework than anything else in the world, say, even a root canal?

Each week, I squeeze out an hour or two to run the sweeper, man a dust rag and toss a few things in the laundry (only what’s absolutely needed to dress myself or my child) and spend the rest of the time in pursuit of the creative. Everything changes. Some changes are good.

Recently my day job offered the opportunity to work from home. I thought it over for a long time. It’s a lot to consider. Do I wish to always be in my own home, to never leave during the daylight hours, to not have coworkers surrounding me and laughing? As it turned out, I decided I could live with it. It was the advent of winter that sealed the deal. The thought of my pretty red sporty car on the snow and ice was enough to scare my hair white.

The things you discover when you’re in your own home twenty-four hours a day are mind-boggling. One of those things is that the housekeeping gene in my family is dominant. I thought it had skipped my generation. I thought it might actually be a disease that only affects those in my family such as my grandmother and my mother. We suffered through a childhood of demands, such as, “Pick up your shoes,” “Clean your room,” “Your turn to do dishes,” and “Is this where you found it? Clean up this mess!”

I now hear those words flying from my own mouth. I swore it wouldn’t happen, but it’s happening. The twelve-year-old princess is finding out what it’s like to live with a stay-at-home mom. I don’t think she’s pleased. Those chores do pile up.

For the first few weeks at home I tried to turn a blind eye. Then it hit me all at once. I’ve lost control of my life. There are things in my house that I’m ashamed of, other things I cannot find, and still other things so disorganized I cannot figure them out.

Then the new year hit. The Christmas decorations were stored away for another year and the place looked like a warmed-over version of hell. Still, I tried to ignore it. Nagging feelings of total chaos danced in my head. It even got to the point where I could no longer write. It’s too much chaos!

Things had to change, so, New Year’s resolutions:

1.       Clean this Mother Hubbard (censored expletive) of a house.

2.       Be kinder to myself and others.

3.       Wrestle back control of my life.

It came to a head one day while working at my day-job. I work for a call center, answer questions for those who call in and ask. There is no room for errors. So, as I researched the needed information, I was brutally attacked. That’s right, attacked. A small horde of vicious dust bunnies took flight and went for my eyes. Thinking fast, I put my caller on hold and went on the defensive, swatting and swinging until the nasty creatures were subdued.

After the call, I took my break and went on the hunt for that horrifying, unnatural being known as the domestic dust bunny. It was the dog who had flushed them from their hiding places. The evidence was quite literally written on her poor face in the form of fuzzy gray balls of fluff. She looked confused, upset and not a little terrified. Something had to be done. The malicious creatures had taken on life and were stealing the dog’s food and socks from the laundry monster. Unbelievable.

I was on a mission. Over the next few days I tore into each room, tracking and hunting, evicting spiders along the way as I sought out self-animated and self-aware dust bunnies. It was in the man cave where I found the breeding ground. I was at war and the stakes were high. At one point I even thought about using my husband’s old shotgun. I won’t tell you what I did about the thought, but the husband was not amused. The most difficult part was patching the holes in the floor, walls and door.

They’re all gone now.

Still, there were my goals for this year. There are things that stand in the way of such lofty goals—things such as the laundry monster and the mail beast.

The laundry monster is pretty well self-explanatory. We’ve all experienced such creations of our own making. The pile grows higher and higher until an avalanche threatens to destroy lives. After getting the many missing socks from the now-vanquished dust bunnies, the pile grew higher. I started on it straight away.

What to do while waiting for the laundry was to tackle the mail beast. This creature is a bit more rare. We don’t throw out our junk mail. We don’t have a shredder, but we have a fireplace. One does not fire up the fireplace in the heat of the summer, so one stores the mail until such time as a fire is feasible.

By that time, feasibility of a fire was not an issue. The mail beast was. It was too large to tackle. It was spreading its piles across the counters, reproducing asexually and making a bid for world domination. Cooking meals was becoming risky.

You see, it wasn’t a matter of scooping it off the counter and making trips to the fireplace. The problem was it wasn’t all junk mail. There were needed documents in the beast, documents that weren’t a priority, but needed to be sorted from the belly of the beast and filed away. Daunting at best.

So, while the laundry was going, and the dust was settling, the mail had to be sorted. I was well through it all, had most of it sorted into piles according to subject or into the flames when I ran across something startling—a letter from one of my best friends. It was dated July, 2013.

Chaos ensued and won the day while I stopped to read the coveted, rare, hand-written, post-marked letter. When was the last time you got such a rare treat? I nearly did a jig of joy. (Okay, I did the dance since no one was looking.)

The mail beast was left in its sorted piles while I answered the letter with five rambling pages of hand-written silliness. It had to be answered immediately. It had waited for an answer for six months.

The letter is now in the mail and when I glanced over, I saw that the beast was once more trying to retake it’s former shape, although much reduced in size. Meh, I’ll worry about it tomorrow.

Thirty Year Reunion

7 July, 2013

Thirty years came and went. Where did they go? It was all about the cutest boy, the hottest girl, what was playing on the radio and the latest beer bust at the lake. Now it’s about children, grandchildren, careers, jobs and bills. One minute we were lost in teenage heartbreak, drama, parties and parking on country roads, the next we’re arriving at the door of a restaurant, nervous, giddy and excited.

Pictures taped to the walls remind us of who we once were. Four pictures on a poster remind us of how many and who we lost. Sadness fills us, gladness over-takes us and we revel in the joy of seeing each other again.

Marty met me at the door with a hug and a “You look great!” Thanks, Marty. You’re good for a woman’s ego. The next one I saw was Julie. She was easy to recognize, with twinkling eyes and a flip of her hair. Theresa laughed and welcomed me aboard. Brenda introduced herself to me. Brenda? My gosh. You haven’t changed.

I saw Susan and knew her in an instant. She’s still gorgeous. I always hated her for that—but in a friendly way. Teresa, your hair is short. I hardly recognized you, but you look great. Deanna, still so pretty and fun, you were always one of my favorites to watch. I forgot to ask how your family is.

Paul hadn’t changed. He served dinner in his restaurant, The Courtyard Café, with the help of his family; his son looks so much like him. The food was fabulous, just like you expect it to be down home.

I knew Pat and Shelley would be there. It was a race down the highway, first me, then them and on again—a dangerous, fun game of bumper tag at high rates of speed. That is, until I saw the cop on the side of the road and hit the brakes. They flew past me, uncaring about the man with the badge, waving and laughing. It reminded me of those days thirty years ago.

Conversation moved quickly: How is your sister? Where do you live? What are you doing now? How many kids? Do you remember . . .?

Do you remember? My time with these lovely people was a total of six years. It started in church camp and seventh grade. I had the pleasure of watching them go from pig tails and bubble gum to plans for education, marriage, career.

Then there was nothing. It’s my own fault. I walked away in 1986 and returned to be sociable only once in thirty years. Our twenty year reunion was fun, but I walked away after that, too. It was good to see everyone, but I was done when the night was over.

Something strange happened this time, though. It wasn’t just good to see my former classmates. It was a connection to home that I was missing. It actually felt good to be home, not that it wasn’t good before. It’s just that before I wasn’t ready to rejoin that part of my life. I was busy with a new baby, a very demanding career, a home in need of work and all that writing I’ve done over the past many years. I suppose it’s safe to say that now I’m at a more settled place in life and it was good to be home with everyone.

It’s funny the things you remember. Marty was a funny guy who liked to torment me. Susan sat next to me in Simonson’s history class (or was it English?) and always whispered funny quips. Teresa was a long-legged cheerleader with a sharp eye. Preston is still smiling. Pat was the athlete and Shelley cheered him at every game. Donita and Ed attended the same college as I, always together, always holding hands.

Duane and Denise, brother and sister, close and friendly. I remember the day Duane’s car slid off the road in the wet snowfall, right in front of our bus. Their mother, our driver, shook her head, stopped the bus and let them in. Not a word was said, but Duane told me his mother let him have it when they got home.

Theresa had a laugh that can still be recognized today. It’s infectious and raucous, and full of the joy of life. Julie was always very quiet. At the reunion, there were stories she told with the others that led me to believe there was a great deal more to her—especially after meeting her husband. They make a fun couple. Tiffany, what is there to say? She hasn’t lost her wit and had me in stitches.

I would have known Linda anywhere. She’s still that young girl sitting on the Miss Pittsfield float, swatting bugs and waving to the crowd. Becky changed, but only the color of her hair, and she and Theresa and Linda put on a great get-together.

There are more names, more people to name, but I’m thirty years older and that much more forgetful. (Oh, thanks for the hug, George.) So many didn’t show. Those who lived in and around town must have been too busy on their farms or with family on the holiday weekend. I was sorry they didn’t come and Bev said she would be there. Too bad she never arrived.

It took thirty years, but I finally got a class award. “The Most Interesting Hobby.” I shall treasure that little piece of paper and post it on my website when next I publish again. It will serve as a reminder of how far I’ve come since those days of our youth.

Pittsfield High School Class of 1983, thanks for a great time. I can’t wait for the next one. 

Easter, Redneck-Style.

04/04/13

Here in Illinois, there are many Easter traditions. Most Christians go to church, spend time with family, hunt Easter eggs, fill baskets with goodies and remember the reason for the celebration: He is arisen. It’s a time of celebration and rejoicing, a time of reverence and gratitude. There’s ham and deviled eggs and readings of the Passion of Christ.

In Jewish households, it’s the time of liberation, the Pesach, or Passover. It’s about the Ten Plagues, a stubborn Pharaoh and Moses. It’s a celebration of the Exodus and freedom from slavery, a celebration to be savored with unleavened matzah and wine, song and ceremony.

Then you have Rednecks.

Nothing says Easter to my family like shootin’ stuff. Every year, on the Saturday before Easter, we get together with our arsenals; fill glasses with wine, pop caps off beer and yell, “Pull!” A clay target is thrown by some guy or gal with his/her hand on the lever of a strange contraption. It’s followed by a cacophony of gunshots, which we all hope will eventually splinter the target into black powder against a blue sky.

I like to shoot. There was a time—with youthful good vision—when I never missed. When I stepped up to the line, most of the men would step back because they knew they would never get a chance with me shooting against them. One of the proudest moments of my life was when my grandfather, a seasoned duck hunter, put his gun down and vowed to shoot no more because his granddaughter out-shot him. I still grin when I think about it.

This year, a new target was introduced—the exploding target. It was stationary, set in the field to await its fate. It’s essentially a plastic jar wherein two chemical components are introduced to each other and mixed thoroughly. All one must do is shoot the thing and duck and cover. The trouble is you must hit the target.

I didn’t get a chance to shoot at it.

Many others did, though. Shot after shot rang out as they tried to hit the tiny jar in the distance with hand-guns and rifles. I got tired of watching and walked back up toward the house. I should never have turned my back. A moment later, I was covering my head and looking for a hole to dive into. An explosion rang out over the hills. It was a boom of deafening proportions. When I chanced a glance back, billows of yellow smoked filled the air above a crater in my father’s unplanted cornfield. For a minute there, I thought we were under attack.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: guns, alcohol and explosives? My God, what about the children?

Fear not, dear readers. Those children were right there where they should be—in the thick of it all. They shot guns, kept score, tried to out-shoot, out-talk, and out-do each other all day. Hey, they’re not your kids. They’re redneck kids. My nephew brought in his first turkey when he was only seven or eight, and he did it with a bow. He has a good eye and was proud to bring home dinner. My daughter shot her target pistol like a pro and earned the envy of every boy there.

But . . . with all those guns and all those kids running around, you’d think it was a recipe for disaster. No, not in this family. Anyone who grows up with guns in families such as ours has a healthy respect for them. We all learn proper safety, proper handling and proper care. A gun is not a toy, it’s a tool. Like any tool, it’s to be cared-for and respected. That’s the way of it.

So, no, no one was hurt—unless you count all the sore shoulders from shooting all those long guns. Mine still aches. But guns are not the downfall of such gatherings. It’s when the guns are put away for the day because Ma Nature decides to rain on our parade that you need to worry.

That’s when the ATV’s come out. That’s when the kids really run wild. When you have the entire big farm to run wild on, you don’t worry about freaks and weirdoes or drunk neighbors driving home from the local bar. Hell, you just don’t worry. You let the kids have their freedom. Freedom is in short supply for city kids. Farm kids have it made.

So, a myriad of four-wheelers and go-carts were at their disposal. Fun things, these vehicles in the hills and forests of the farm. With a tank of gas, you can go all night in the spring mud.

But it’s all fun and games until someone flips a go-cart.

There we were, the adults of the party, ducking into sheds and outbuildings to get out of the soft drizzle that added to the mud. I’d just watched my kid ride off with her cousin at the wheel. My mom alarm was going off. I had a strange feeling I shouldn’t let her go, but she begged, “Just one ride before we leave? Please?”

“A short one,” I told her. Then to her cousin, “Be careful and go slow.”

It was a short ride. With my niece at the wheel and my grinning child in the passenger seat of the go-cart, I watched them speed up the hill and disappear into the trees. They were followed by my other niece’s boyfriend on a four-wheeler. I stepped into the shed to wait with my mother, my sister and a few others. I didn’t wait long.

It turned out to be a very short ride indeed. The four-wheeler came flying down the hill and over the creek and to a skidding halt in front of the shed. My daughter was on the back with terror in her eyes. The boyfriend said, “They flipped the go-cart.”

It’s funny how those words can galvanize so many adults into action. I was on her in an instant, thinking my little girl needed to be picked up. I’d seen that look on her face before when she was six and had broken her arm. I knew something terrible was wrong, but she wasn’t six anymore. She’s twelve. She no longer weighs forty pounds.

Still, a mom in such a situation can do miraculous things. I lifted her from the vehicle and stood her on the ground. Grandma was suddenly there, shoving me aside, demanding to know what was wrong.

Hello, I’m the mom here.

Then Grandpa showed up and tried to shove Grandma aside. Auntie was there, too, trying to get into it. Before I knew it, my parents had taken over and I couldn’t get next to my kid.

Ah, well . . . They’d raised the three of us—and we were a real handful. There were broken bones, open wounds, cracked heads. I suppose I could defer to the more experienced ones, and my dad had some first-aid training.

Dad declared it to be a sprain. Mom decided she’d take her to the hospital. I raised a brow. Um, I guess I’ll get the insurance card and meet you at the car.

Mom drove. We took my child to the ER at our little hometown hospital. It’s a very nice hospital with a good trauma ward. Yep, her arm was indeed broken, in the shaft of the radius. Crap.

The good doctor spent a good amount of time lecturing about safety equipment such as helmets and pads. Yeah, okay, I get it. Next time, listen to the mom alarm. Visions of my child’s head or spine crushed under the roll bar of the go-cart flooded my mind. I wanted to smack him.

If he shot me the hairy eyeball once, he did it a dozen times. He wanted me to be ashamed, to feel the guilt of a mother who failed to protect her young. Next time, I won’t put the guns away. Next time . . .

We got back to the farm with the kid’s arm wrapped from fingers to shoulder. The molded splint was bigger than her head. She was in pain, had missed her dinner and wanted to go home. We had prescriptions to fill, it was late and her father kept calling. Of course, I didn’t answer until we were on the road for home. We were supposed to be leaving just after he had, but that was hours ago. I’d called him from the hospital after saying a silent prayer of thanks he’d already left when the accident occurred. Nothing says “emergency” like a father on a rampage.

We got home shortly before midnight and spent a quiet Easter Sunday at home with no ham and no deviled eggs. I just wanted to forget the holiday—or all holidays. Given our track record of late, boycotting the holidays wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

So, the moral of the story is, don’t stop shootin’ stuff. If you do, someone’s bound to get hurt.

Christmas ADHD

It was a rough Christmas. To be honest, the entire holiday season has been a whirlwind of furious activity. When September arrived, I finally started feeling better. After one week shy of a year from the time my heart went haywire, I was finally starting to feel like my old self.

My old self took a look around and discovered my home was a mess. I spent several weeks scrubbing, cleaning, spackling, painting and barking orders at the rest of the household. New furniture was ordered and the place reorganized just in time to feed the multitudes for Thanksgiving. It took a week to prepare the food that would be devoured in less than two hours.

The next day I rested. Then it was time to prepare for Christmas. The days flew; the husband injured his shoulder at work. He needed care. He needed meds. He needed a doctor but convincing him of such is like trying to pull teeth on a tyrannosaur. We argued. I threw up my arms in surrender and tried to carry on.

The project this year was bath stuff—you know, soaps, oils, gels, salts, powders—all the stuff needed to enjoy a decadent bath, complete with chocolate truffles. What’s a luxurious bath without amazing chocolates? All of it had to be formulated, made by a caring hand for the women in the family. I turned my dining room into a laboratory.

Men don’t really care about luxuriating in a hot bath with fragrant salts and oils. For them it would be baked goods. The kitchen was turned into a bakery. I had to spend hours creating goodies and slapping the husband’s good hand every time he tried to sneak a treat.

Treats are a favorite of most men. They wander through life looking for some tasty confection to shove into their mouths. Grandma always said, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” I think some women should aim their culinary weapon more carefully. Some of them tend to cook for the wrong men and end up with broken hearts and fatherless children.

Oh, yeah—the child. In the midst of flurry and mayhem, the princess fell ill. She came back from the annual cookie baking at Grandma’s with a stuffed head and a slight fever. On Monday, I left work early to take her to the doctor. The poor kid had a sinus infection—or so they thought.

Missing time at work, behind on the gift projects and still trying to find time to do the shopping, Christmas was just a week away. The work week ended, the child was not improving. I was in the final push when she began crying in the night. Fortunately, I was still up furiously working away at getting things finished. At this point, I was no longer looking at the calendar, but at the clock.

The husband was pressed into taking her to urgent care. They sat there for three hours while the smoke hissed from my furious hands. The oven fired non-stop, with the aromas of various cookies mixing with the scents of lilacs, lavender, jasmine, oranges and cloves.

The salts spilled all over the floor.

I love my floor, durable hardwood that shines as highly polished wood should. I believe I wrote about the odyssey of having it installed. Home repairs always come with their own special problems. No matter how well you plan, how organized you are, something always goes wrong.

I have yet to paint the kitchen and dining room. Kitchens need fresh paint regularly, at least in homes where kitchens are used. I cook. I cook a lot. My walls are a mess. I really must get them done. Maybe I should paint them green. Green is a nice color for kitchens.

Where was I? The phone rang and the husband informed me the princess had strep. She was indeed very ill. That’s just fabulous. As I contemplated this new development, I set my bare foot in the spilled bath salts. Oh, yeah. Clean up the salts.

The timer went off and I couldn’t remember why I’d set it. Was there something in the oven? Butter cookies.

My husband loves butter cookies. He’d eat his weight in them every day, if I could bake that much. I would have to hide them if I wanted any left for Christmas presents. I had yet to wrap things and the daughter would be home soon.

So, I wrapped. Still working furiously, I had paper and ribbons strung across the living room floor. When she got home, she found a pile of packages covered in pretty paper. I told her she could decorate them with all the ribbons and trinkets from the wrapping box and turned her loose.

The husband returned to town to fetch meds and toilet paper. Antibiotics have an adverse effect on the digestive tract. I also asked him to get yogurt. It’s essential while taking antibiotics.

The day ended, the child tucked in and the next day was a mess. Not a surface in the main part of the house was clear. There were still cookies to bake, soaps to make, gifts to finish and a kid who was up in the night with an ear ache.

Ear pain is the worst. The poor kid has dealt with this since she was three months old. There is nothing more crazed in the world than a mother with a sick kid. When she’s in pain, I’d kill to have her healthy again.

Another dose of meds and a glance at the abandoned vacuum cleaner and I tried to remember what I was doing. The husband complained of throat pain. I demanded he see a doctor immediately. He told me to . . . Never mind.

Focus. Christmas gifts. Cookies? Tinsel is shiny.

The day sped by. It was a day when I cursed the Mayans. If the end of their calendar had meant the end of the world at midnight on the 21st, I wouldn’t be struggling to finish crap up. The Mayans were an interesting people. So much technology, so much violence. I wonder what they would think of our modern Christmas rituals.

The cookies are burning. I don’t even remember putting then in the oven.

There was a loud crash at the back of the house. I didn’t bother to find out what it was. It didn’t matter. I still had to clean up bath salts.

Cookie sheets loaded with balls of raw dough were shoved in the oven. Melted soap had to be poured into molds.

The kid was screaming again. The pain was unbearable. Her regular doctor could get her in right away. Get dressed. Now!

The strep was drug resistant. They put her on something stronger and recommended complete bed rest. Well, duh. It was Christmas Eve and Christmas with the family was just canceled. While driving to the pharmacy, I made all the calls needed to inform family, blew up at my sister who didn’t want to help get the gifts to my mother’s—after all the hard work—and got the kid home. The concern now was her infected eardrum rupturing. It did, later that night. It’s the first time it’s ever happened.

Christmas Eve. I’m in a panic. There are things to finish. My brother-in-law generously offered to pick up the gifts for my mother’s party. I suspect it was because I blew up at my sister, then called my mother to tell her I would bring the things myself , then my mother probably called my sister to tell her to cooperate and now the entire family is angry at me. I don’t care at this point. I’m still walking in spilled bath salts. I grabbed a broom.

The broom lay forgotten on the floor while I boxed, bagged, wrapped and tagged. It was all done when the man arrived. He didn’t look very happy. I’m sorry for that. Truly I am, but I shoved the thought to the side while tending the child’s pain. I put a pot of soup on, tripped over the broom and skinned a toe on the bath salts.

The husband announced he was hungry. The kid wanted to unwrap gifts. The sausage we were supposed to share with the in-laws for Christmas Eve dinner needed to be cooked. Forgetting completely about the soup, I started a loaf of bread to go with the spaghetti I was now planning.

The lights on the tree are pretty. It would be nice if I could enjoy it. I sat down to gaze at it. The kid announced she was hungry. I had to feed her because she was losing weight from lack of appetite. I just put a tray in her lap when the husband returned with some of her favorite soup from her favorite restaurant. Excellent timing.

I was done. Finally. After stubbing my toe on the broom in a pile of bath salts, I cursed and began packing all my supplies. The husband complained about the mess on the floor, but didn’t bother to help clean it up. Instead, he made a bee line for the piles of cookies I’d failed to hide.

The sun was shining on the melting ice outside the window. Shiny. The cat ran through the room and skidded on the salts. I finally remembered to clean them up, finished packing the supplies, put the centerpiece in place and headed for the living room.

“Can we unwrap presents yet?”

The child was finished with her lunch, patiently holding the tray with its uneaten remnants of food. Dropping a handful of tissue paper, I took the tray and tried to find a clear surface in the kitchen to set it on. It was a mess. The cat found something to bat across the floor and right underfoot. The dog chased after the cat. I tripped and knocked over a jar of bath salts.

To occupy the kid, I let her open a gift. It was a sketch kit, complete with everything a sickly child needed to occupy her hands. She was overjoyed.

I stepped in bath salts while carrying empty tea things to the kitchen and went in search of the broom. I found something that needed to be wrapped and went back to the piles of crap in the living room. Ribbons and bows and tape and paper—all over the floor. Decorating gifts is a creative talent of mine. I enjoy it. I don’t use those cheap ribbons available only at holiday time. I go to fabric stores and buy the good stuff. I use lace and ornaments and candy canes.

The husband growled about gritty salt under his feet.

I abandoned the living room mess and went in search of the broom. The kid wanted water.

The sausage was burning.

The dog was chasing the cat.

The stockings were hung with great care.

The last batch of cookies were disappearing down my husband’s gullet.

I forgot what I was going to write about. Christmas rituals? Insanity. Ooo, that golden ornament is shiny. Nice.

Alfred Hitchcock Can Bite My Tail Feathers

April 4, 2012

Have you ever felt like you were trapped in a bad episode of The Twilight Zone, or perhaps Alfred Hitchcock’s ghost was playing a practical joke?  Today was such a day for yours truly.

It all started when our ten-year-old princess ran to my room early this morning.  “A female cardinal is knocking on the front door!”  She walked away giggling and continued to get ready for school. 

After she ran to meet the bus, I started getting ready for work.  As I toweled my hair, I heard a strange noise.  I remembered what my daughter said about the cardinal and went to investigate.  Sure enough, a rust-colored cardinal was attempting suicide on the glass of my front door.  It was a strange moment for me.  The animal saw me, but continued to crash into the window.  I shooed it away and finished getting ready for work.

As I drove to town, minding my own business, I saw a hawk.  It was a magnificent creature, patrolling the field to my right.  Or so I thought.  The bird suddenly changed course and headed straight for my vehicle.  It came in close, but then circled away.  It was another strange moment, but just when I thought I was safe, the blasted thing veered right and swooped down over the front of my Saturn POS.  I screamed, swerved, and narrowly missed another suicidal bird intent on crashing my windshield.

Shaken, but still able to laugh it off, I made it to work in once piece.  Dismissing the two incidents, I worked until my first break.  The day was beautiful, so why not go outside?  As I stepped through the door, the warm spring air welcomed me.  Clouds gathered overhead, shutting out the sun as I walked across the parking lot. 

I was halfway to my car when I heard a clatter overhead.  Three squabbling robins fell from the sky.  One landed in my hair while another hit my face.  I dashed for my car, glancing around to see if anyone else saw me making a fool of myself while I did the icky-bird-in-my-hair dance. (Picture Ace Venture swamped by a flock of bats.) Thankfully, I was alone. 

It was another strange moment.

In my car, driving away from the scene of the last bird attack, I wondered if old Alfred was hanging around with a camera crew.  Was he doing candid films of women dodging homicidal birds?

I parked on the side of a street not far from the office while contemplating this last attack.  I started to recognize how Tippi Hedren must have felt when she was running for her life from a flock of maniacal pecker-heads.  Soon it was time to return to the office, so I put my car in gear and pulled away from the curb.  I nearly put myself through the windshield when I hit the brakes.  It was a blackbird this time, slamming itself into a stupor against my closed door window. 

What the hell?

Lunchtime came and went without incident, as did the afternoon break.  I thought I was safe.  Leaving for the day, glad to see the backside of another work day, I stepped into the gloomy afternoon wind and heard the sound of the speaker on the corner of the roof.  It’s an apparatus installed to deter the unflappable Canada geese that had taken over the area in the past two years.  We hadn’t seen a single goose on the grounds since they’d put it in.

As I stepped around the back of my car, I saw four geese.  They were big suckers with foul (no pun intended) tempers and no desire to give ground.  They came at me, heads lowered, wings spread, spoiling for a fight.  They stood between me and my route of escape.

Most who know me know that I have little tolerance and even less patience.  The ornithological world was testing me and I’d had enough.

Throwing my lunch bucket at the birds, I lashed out with my purse (it’s actually more like a piece of luggage—if I’d connected with their pea brains, they would have dropped).  It must have been quite a spectacle:  birds lunging with a screaming, belligerent woman swinging her purse, intent upon bird murder.   The geese finally gave ground.  I chased them to the street and returned to my car the victor. 

Alfred can bite my disgruntled tail feathers.  If he decides to play it this way again tomorrow, I’m going to carry my shotgun with me and put bird on the menu for supper.

That Vicious Mood

January 27, 2010

The mood comes upon us and we don’t even realize it.  We rise in the morning, look at the scary freak in the mirror, scratch our butts and start the day.  Then, while listening to Snap, Crackle and Pop over the din of morning news reports, barking puppies and screaming kids, it hits.  The Mood…

Oh, come on.  Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.  We’ve all been there.

The cereal tastes like crap.  The kid is on a tear, screaming because she doesn’t have a thing to wear in all the clothes you spent a king’s ransom on.  The dog just chewed through your best summer pumps, which she dug out of the back of the closet after depositing a fresh, fragrant gift next to your bed.  The sweet little trinket/bimbo on the tube is smiling brightly and giggling while she tells you—with great enthusiasm—that you better get out your long handles and snow boots because there’s going to be yet another blizzard in a long succession of sunless days.

Suddenly you’re envisioning that adorable puppy roasting on a spit over a blazing fire and watching the weather-twerp’s dyed hair dissipate, leaving her bald and screeching her humiliation in front of the camera.

Yep, that’s right.  It’s The Mood.

Beware, dear people.  This is not something to be taken lightly.  It affects Northerners far more frequently than Southerners—especially in the winter months—but no one is immune to its influence.

Your morning commute becomes a nightmare of knuckle-dragging idiots without enough glyco cells between them to make a decent primate.  (For you brainiacs out there, I know that’s not the correct usage of the terminology, but I’m being facetious.) 

The guy in the white Cadillac Escalade is back, taking up your lane as well as his while he juggles his morning coffee, his cell phone and the briefcase he keeps fishing crap out of.  What the hell?  Is it on auto pilot?

Oh, let’s not forget your favorite soccer mom, shuttling her kids, the neighbor’s kids and some vagrant who sneaked into her soccer-mom-prerequisite minivan.  She’s not paying attention either.  She’s singing along to the radio and studying her daily agenda while Junior and his buddies toss the ball around until it flies out the window and crashes into your windshield.  WTF?  Why do they have the window down?  Hellooo…It’s winter!

Then you get to work and your coworkers are doing that pretend-to-be-cheerful-so-they-think-you’re-a-stellar-employee dance with their big fake smiles and their jovial greetings.  You want to tell them all to stick it up their butts, but you smile and do your best to join the dance, or the supervisor gives you that look that says she knows you’re in The Mood. 

That’s where I found myself today—deep in the clutches of this nasty frame of mind.  I was too PO’ed to even fake the dance as I went about my daily grind at the lovely cube farm. 

My first call of the day was from an egotistical dork who took great pleasure in reminding me that I was there to serve him.  I’d like to serve him, all right, with a nice Chianti and some farva beans.  Slurp.

But I did my job, saying in a voice oozing saccharine, “That’s what I’m here for, sir.  I’ll be happy to take care of whatever issues you have.  Now, what may I do for you?” 

With a Star Wars Universal Translator the caller would have heard, “Yeah, let me take care of the problems you caused because you’re too dim-witted to figure out how to fill out the same paperwork you’ve been filling out in the twenty-two years you’ve been doing your job, you mindless sack of cow pies.  I’ll fix it with some arsenic.  You want that straight up, or on the rocks?”

It didn’t get much better as the day progressed.  Everyone, it seemed, was in the same humor.  They were ticked off at the world, and me in particular because I was foolish enough to take their calls.  By the time I was finished for the day, I was ready to (in the words of Arlo Guthrie in his famous Alice’s Restaurant—the long version) Kill!  Kill!  Kill!

Not having taken enough punishment for the day, I decided to stay after and call up member services to deal with a few of my own benefit issues before heading out into what was starting to look like a wicked winter storm.  There’s an employee program that reimburses us for money spent to get in shape, have well care visits with doctors and anything else we do for our own good health, but I can't get into the system.  I haven’t been able to since I signed up over three years ago.  I have to get the paperwork before I sign up at the gym in order to get the discount.  I’ve been trying to join a local gym for several weeks now and this is the only thing holding me up. 

So, I stayed late, on my own time, to talk to the people at the help desk, but because I'm an employee, they can't access my account and fix it.  I have to talk to someone in employee services.  Those people are only there during the same hours I'm on the phone and I have to have a computer in front of me when I talk to them on the phone, so I can't call them on my lunch hour because I'm not supposed to use my company computer or the company phone for personal business during regular business hours.  ARGH!

An hour and several handfuls of hair later, I headed into the eye of the storm—and I’m not talking about the weather.  I was fed up to the gills with the day, with the job, with the people around me and the world in general. 

It took time, and a great deal of personal restraint with all the knuckle-draggers on the road, to make it to the interstate.  As I headed for the on-ramp, my one goal was to make it before the salt truck/snowplow two car-lengths ahead of me got there.  I was just about to make my move when a Mercedes cut me off.  A big glob of sticky slush hit my windshield and left me temporarily blinded.  By the time my wipers had done their job, there were two cars on the side of the road, the Mercedes was behind me again and the salt truck was on the ramp.  With a few choice words for Mr. Mercedes, I followed the truck—at a safe and slow distance.

For those of you who rarely or never see a salt truck, this big thing on the back of the truck wings salt chunks everywhere, making it impossible to pass without damage to your car, so I had to stay behind it.  It was spraying rock salt, some chunks as big as my fist and the mix of raw salt, slush from the truck tires and the snow coming down caused a nasty film on my windshield that was near impossible to wipe away. 

I got into the left lane and tried to pass him, but the salt sprayer covers both lanes, so bits and pieces were hitting my car.  I got behind him again and stayed there.

Finally, the others behind me decided to slide around him.  The first was Mr. Mercedes and I had a wicked moment of malicious glee when a huge chunk hit the car causing something to break off the front end.  I had to swerve to miss it when it came flying back.  Oh, the perverse joy!  Then came several others, one in a big SUV.  I got on his back bumper and followed him around, using him as a shield.  I got past the big truck, got up to my exit, took the next ramp to my turnoff and ended up behind another salter. 

I pulled off the road, screamed profanities and waited until I was sure he was far enough down the road before I continued. 

Let me tell you, dear readers, there isn’t enough chocolate ice cream in all of Christendom to make a day like this go away or cure The Mood once it sets in.  

Censorship in the Land of the Free

Constitution of the United States of America

BILL OF RIGHTS

AMENDMENT I

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

It’s been a while since my last post.  I apologize for it.  I’ve been very remiss.  For those of you who visit here looking for something pithy, something that gives you a moment to relish someone else’s domestic miseries, I apologize again.  This is not that post.

Let’s be serious for a moment.  Allow me to discuss something horrifying that is happening more and more often of late in our beloved homeland: Censorship.

To be fair, I’m not talking so much about what the government does daily to silence people.  That may be a topic for another day.  The subject of this post is censorship imposed by corporate entities.  The latest attack has been imposed by such banking corporations as PayPal.

PayPal, as well as other on-line banking services have taken it upon themselves to tell publishers just what kind of stories they may sell to the poor, misguided public.  That’s right, my friends, they’ve decided to ban any seller of certain types of . . . dare I say it?  EROTICA!  ThereIsaidit.  Whew.

This is not a ban on all erotic stories, mind you . . . at least not yet.  It’s only certain types.  These semi-taboo and taboo subjects are not exactly my cup of tea, but to paraphrase the words of Evelyn Beatrice Hall who wrote under the pseudonym S.G. Tallentyre when she summed up the beliefs of Voltaire, I may not like what you have to say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it. 

The thing is I shouldn’t have to defend it to the death.  I live in the “Land of the Free”.  This freedom of speech is written in stone.  No, really.  There are plaques and monuments all over the country where these words are inscribed in stone.  And they should be in every country, every land, every culture.  The free exchange of ideas, creative expression and bawdy jokes is a freedom every single human being should enjoy, but many don’t.  Here in America, the line is being drawn.

It’s being drawn against one of our most sacred laws.

As I indicated earlier, the types of stories under attack aren’t really my kind, but I do write stories with erotic content.  Not all my work has sex, but some of my most popular titles do. 

Okay, let’s see a show of hands.  How many of you actually read my work?  I see a lot of women, but judging by my fan mail, there are just as many men.  Come on, guys, don’t be shy.  There’s nothing wrong with indulging in an action-packed romantic escapade where the girl gets the guy, and in the end they make lots of babies and live happily ever after.  (My favorite was the ex-Marine who expressed his anger at me for bringing him to tears—you know who you are.)

How would you feel if you couldn’t buy the new title waiting in the wings because two people in the story have the audacity to engage in intercourse—which we probably all agree is the natural progression of things when two people fall in love.

PayPal hasn’t gotten around to banning such titles yet, but it’s a real danger.  What’s next?  By their reckoning, the Bible should be banned, as well as many other religious and holy books, too.  It’s an interesting—albeit frightening—course in this life.

Let’s explore other writers.  Much fine literature is rampant with sexual content.  Consider, if you will, the following authors and their titles:

Thomas Keneally, Schindler’s Arc (from which comes the massively successful movie, Schindler’s List)

Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary (even in France when it was written, it was realized that the right to publish it far out-weighed the government’s authority to crush it.)

Radclyff Hall, The Well of Loneliness (Oh, wait.  That one was successfully censored by our own government in the 1928 U.S. obscenity trial, due to—heavens!—lesbian sex.  All copies of the novel were destroyed.  Of course, someone rather naughty saw to it that it was republished in recent decades.)

James Joyce, Ulysses (Holy &*^%, there’s masturbation in the story!)

Peter Parnell and Justin Richardson, And Tango Makes Three (It’s a children’s story, for crying out loud, but because it deals with two male penguins bonding together to care for an egg—you know, like in real life—people want it banned as having “gay” overtones.)

J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (So darned sexual! It’s the third most challenged book.)

Many of you have read some of these exceptional titles.  Many of you have read classic and recent titles by great authors and found more than one titillating scene in them.  We read them to feel, to escape, to learn and to experience.  Should any of them be banned?

Our freedom of speech is a powerful tool—and a powerful weapon.  It was used as a weapon to free this country from oppression over two hundred years ago.  It’s still useful today.  The time is now, ladies and gentlemen.  It’s time to speak up before these revered works are no longer available. 

Let’s show these over-bearing corporations that we, the people, are not misguided, ignorant or in need of Big Brother to decide what we can read, what we experience and what we want to learn.  I, for one, will be making my stand against censorship and any other form of oppression that threatens my freedom.